


the list of things you left behind

by cowboykillers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykillers/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saving the world is always just the first step.</p><p>Rebuilding takes time, patience, dedication, and more pairs of hands than the Inquisition has among it. One by one, its members scatter to where they're most needed, and it's like the three beats of a waltz: war, peace, and revolution. Cullen's been down this road before, and he can only hope this time that the peace lasts a little longer, and the revolution doesn't come with quite so many bloodied hands.</p><p>In the meantime, he'll continue to do what he does best, putting pieces together where he can and building anew where he can't. Miles and miles away, Dorian does much the same, and slowly, the world begins to take new shape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. spare time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feverpitchfiasco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverpitchfiasco/gifts).



> Rating will go up as the fic merits it, and additional tags & warnings will crop up.
> 
> Pairings include: Dorian/Cullen mainly, with a side of Alistair/Hero of Ferelden, Cassandra/Inquisitor, and a handful of others to be revealed.

Sunlight splits his parchment in two, catching the tail end of the only sentence he's been able to put ink to paper for, and he is miserably frustrated with himself. Not for the act of writing itself -- Cullen has never been verbose, whether he's communicating with someone face-to-face or devoting himself to the laborious task of composing a letter -- but for the timing of it all. Mia finds no end of pleasure in telling him that his correspondence, on the rare occasion it comes through, could put her children off to sleep faster than a knock to the back of the head, if only it were a little bit longer. He would be more offended if it weren't true, but even he can't deny that his letters home are dry and short, perfunctory at best, and have been for some time. 

The world was ending, after all. And now that it isn't, he finds he still doesn't have much to say. Which, incidentally, says quite a lot about him. 

Much as he loves his sister, however, this communication is not for her. With Corypheus behind them and the mess of picking up the pieces of the world and moving on, he has allowed many things to slip by the wayside, personal communications being near to the top of that list. Even so, if he is honest with himself (and he does try, these days, to be as honest a man as he can bear to be), he has put off writing to this particular friend for much longer than he ought to have. 

Perhaps he would not be writing at all, had he not received a letter first. That shames him, because his friend deserves better than that, and yet... 

"And yet," he mutters, dipping the tip of his quill into ink and squaring his shoulders, foolishly, for the battle ahead. 

To his left, a single sheet of parchment, crisp and folded in three places, sits open. The message is clear and devastatingly to the point, and he winces even now as his eye catches it, tongue running over his teeth. 

_Commander,_

_Are we not to be friends, then? Do let me know, whichever way you lean -- I detest loose ends._

_Eagerly anticipating your decision,_  
_Dorian Pavus_

He's not sure if it's better or worse that he can hear the words as clearly as if Dorian were standing at his elbow, knows the inflection and dip the _do_ would take to round it out into sarcasm, biting and so very useful for shielding the more complicated nuances of this particular conversation. Were the man standing before him, Cullen could simply give him a look, dismiss the idea that a simple misunderstanding would be enough to shake the foundation of a friendship he's come to hold very dear, but that is not a luxury they have. 

Well. It is luxury that Dorian has, he supposes, as Cullen imagines he's well settled back into life in Tevinter, but that's neither here nor there. 

No, now he has the arduous task of attempting to communicate, and it's difficult enough for him to get his meaning across when he has tone and gesture to accompany it. Words on parchment look so stark, and so much harsher than he means them to. 

He drops his quill back into the ink pot, shoving back from his desk with an annoyed huff, and tips his head back. 

"Maker," he breathes, reaching up to massage his forehead. "Why is nothing ever easy?" 

"Because that would negate the journey," Cassandra supplies briskly, frank and direct as she drops a heavy bundle of mail on his desk, bound with twine. 

Cullen cracks open an eye, regarding her thoughtfully for a moment, and notes that her fringe has grown out a bit over her forehead. He's not the only one with too few hours in the day, it seems. "Yes, well, for once I think I would be fine missing out on the journey. I'm getting a bit too _old_ for journeys." 

Cassandra hesitates a moment, peering down at him, before crossing her arms and resting her hip against the corner of his desk. It seems rude to continue to slouch when she gives the indication that she won't simply be in and out, and so he straightens, grimacing faintly as the move pulls at his lower back. 

He'd been joking about getting old, but Andraste's breath, he's not actually getting any younger, is he? 

After a considerable silence, Cassandra notes, "You're fine," in a tone that's both dismissive and confident, somehow. It makes him smile, even as she leans over to observe what he's working on, and a frown line digs down hard between her eyebrows. "You are writing to Dorian?" 

"Yes," he replies, his own eyebrow arching quizzically. "Is that a problem?" 

"No," she says immediately, tossing him a look that would shame him were they lesser friends. "I am simply surprised. He has not been overly solicitous of anyone's attention since he left." 

An uncomfortable itch settles between his shoulders, but Cullen ignores it. "I imagine he's rather busy." After a beat, he adds wryly, "And we both know that my letters aren't a burden for someone dear on time." 

"That they are not," she agrees, a smile lifting lopsided on her mouth, as charming as it is asymmetrical. "Well, do give him my regards. It can be a lonely place," she adds, sobering, and pushes off from Cullen's desk. 

"Tevinter?" He asks, brow pinching, and feels as though he's missed a step in the conversation somewhere along the way. 

Cassandra pauses at the door frame, glancing over her shoulder at him, and her face softens fractionally. "Home." 

Before he can think of a reply, she slips out, the door closing heavily behind her. Shame draws his stomach up tight, because Cassandra is rarely a subtle woman -- and he's certain she didn't mean anything by it -- but pressing her thumb so neatly on the pulse of the matter has exposed it to him nevertheless. 

_Are we not to be friends?_

He grabs a fresh sheet of parchment, wets his quill, and hunches his shoulders as he bends to reply.


	2. companionship

Being home again is something akin to wearing his least favorite pair of dress shoes.

He loves the shoes themselves -- they're shapely and fashionable still, somehow, even though he's had them for years -- and certainly they pinch a little bit from time to time, but it's a small price to pay for being in the right place, at the right time, exactly as he should be. Or that's what he tells himself, at least, as he falls back into a society that he'd almost deluded himself into thinking he'd missed, and tries to make the best of what is frankly an awful, jarring transition.

If anyone had ever intimated that he would one day come to miss Skyhold and its perpetual aroma of fodder, manure, and mildew, he would have either laughed himself sick or read them a riot act they would not have soon forgotten. And yet here he was, missing Skyhold desperately, and too stubborn by half to admit it to anyone but himself.

He flicks the curtain at his window aside, glancing down into a bustling, beautiful street scene, and purses his lips thoughtfully. While rarely a forthcoming man when it really counts, he is at least a very self-aware one, and he can acknowledge that there is very little he actually misses about the cobbled-together military base that he reluctantly called home-for-right-now for so many months. Oh, his little nook amongst the bookshelves had been nice enough, and his sprawling libraries don't afford him the same kind of intimacy and comfort that the strange, tucked away little corner he'd carved out as his own had, but he is certainly happier having more stimulating literature on hand than the many and varied odes to the Chantry and, worse, Mabari hounds.

It's also a blessing to have an entire wardrobe at his disposal again, and places fit to wear something aside from hiking boots and whatever awful armor his dear friend had scrounged up (often from dead enemies, and apparently there was to be no fuss made about that) but even still, material things were just... unsatisfactory. It had always been like this, to a certain degree, but he can't recall feeling quite so wrong-footed in his own home, even during his darkest years.

Perhaps he'd just known how to play the game better then, and he's simply rusty now.

A woman cranes her neck, glancing up and fluttering a fan in front of her face, and he lets the drapery fall closed.

"Or perhaps all that character growth is catching up to me," he huffs, voice bouncing across marbled tiles, and he sighs. Another thing to get used to, he supposes -- there is no frantic hurry in his home, no static burst of ambient noise that had always come with the rush and mild chaos of the base. "Disturbing."

He'd thought he'd get the best sleep of his life on his first night back, on actual silken sheets, and instead he'd stared at his ceiling until dawn broke, miserable and alone and horrified with himself for _caring_ that he was. Obviously, spending so much time in the south had irreparably damaged him.

Sulking wasn't a pastime he could indulge in for overlong, however. He'd come back to Tevinter to make things right, or at least set his country, ill and sickly as it was, on the path toward it. The task was an ambitious one, and one that left him very little in the way of idle time, but perhaps that was for the best. It was much more difficult for hours filled to the brim with tedious tasks and activities to be lonely hours, after all.

Smoothing the tail of his coat under his knees, he sits at his desk and drags his chair forward, reaching for the ever-present stack of mail to begin sorting. Trash, trash, a no-doubt scathing review of his personal habits, gossip -- he sets that one aside, Llewelyn always has the good word -- and a few missives he's been eagerly anticipating. Much of the work he's done in the past few months has been arduous and painstaking, trying to build networks of like-minded people (or at least as like-minded as he can find in Tevinter when it's still so dangerous to admit as much), and frankly, he's exhausted in ways he'd almost forgotten he could be.

That isn't to say that he would take stomping around the Storm Coast until his hair frizzed and he was damp in places no respectable man should be, but playing the game after devoting himself to such a different sort of warfare has served very well to remind him of why he left in the first place.

No --

He pauses, flipping a letter over in his hands, and frowns.

Why he _ran_ in the first place. It's rather time he stopped doing that. He doesn't have to be happy about it, necessarily, but he does need to own up to his responsibilities, and be the agent of change that he swore he would be.

He ought to write dear Inquisitor Cadash a strongly-worded letter about that. The bastard shouldn't have been half as inspiring as he was during that entire mess, or Dorian wouldn't be in his current predicament.

(He says that, but part of him knows that he was always going to come home. Give him enough time to lick his wounds and shore up his defenses, and he'd have dragged himself back to try to make things better, one way or another. How could he not? He loves this damned country, even for all her pock marks and scars and ugliness -- perhaps even because of how far she's fallen, not in spite of it. It's certainly something he can relate to.)

His mail is nearly entirely sorted when he gets to the last, a thin envelope with a familiarly rushed, scratchy hand detailing his address, and he is... surprised. The letter he'd sent weeks past hadn't been the most mature piece of communication that he could have constructed, and he'd half expected it to go ignored, which would have been easier all around for everyone. Honestly, Dorian isn't sure why he even reached out to begin with; they'd left things on a rather awkward note and, if he had any sense at all, he would have tucked away that particular embarrassment and moved on with his life, as he'd assured the good Commander that he would.

Apparently, the south had stripped him of more of his dignity and self-preservation that he cared to admit.

Pulling a face, he reaches for a letter opener and slides it beneath the lip of the envelope, philosophically deciding to get the worst of it over and put the matter to bed as soon as possible. Commander Rutherford was a good man, had been a good friend of his, but he had little patience for childishness. It was one of the things Dorian liked best about him, when he wasn't aiming his vaguely disapproving, paternal looks at him personally, but at least that wouldn't be a problem anymore. Cullen would no sooner set foot in Tevinter than Dorian would strip naked and roll in the mud to impress a Mabari, after all.

Lip curling at the thought of the dogs -- ugh, _beastly_ animals -- he carefully unfolds the letter and scans it, stomach twisted in slight apprehension despite himself.

_Dorian,_

_Don't be an ass. Of course we're friends. Though after a few months' worth of letters back and forth, you'll likely give me up as a lost cause, the same as my sister has._

_Cassandra sends her regards. I have nothing substantial to report -- it's very much a game of hurry up and wait, and it's still too early to have made many appreciable strides in our recovery efforts. I will keep you abreast of any news worth having._

_Respectfully,_  
_Cullen Rutherford_

"Respectfully my exceptional ass," Dorian mutters, but he can't quite fight the smile down, exasperating as the man can be. His unease abates, and he finds he is more relieved than he wants to admit that he has not, perhaps, ruined one of the most stable friendships of his adult life.

He moves his thumb, and that's when he notices the post-script, the ink slightly smeared as though it were added in haste just before the letter was folded and sealed away. It takes him a moment to recognize it for what it is -- a familiar opening gambit -- and his smile grows, something vaguely bittersweet tugging at his chest as he pushes back from his desk and crosses the room.

The chessboard hasn't been touched in years, and after he drags it closer to his desk and rights the pieces on the board, he settles his hands on his hips and considers it. His usual strategies are not going to be helpful for a long distance game, mainly because his usual strategies involve a fair amount of, well, cheating.

Tongue caught between his teeth, he leans over and shifts a pawn, studying the board a moment longer until he's decided that he's committed, and nods decisively.

"Friends it is," he says quietly, fingers drumming against his hips, and strangely enough, he's not even disappointed.


	3. a shoulder to lean on

Life settles into a rhythm soon enough, which is not to say that is predictable by any means, but without the immediacy of the Breach and the threat of Corypheus looming over their heads, Cullen begins to feel rather more at home in his routine than he has been in many, many years. He knows too well what it's like to still be standing when the dust clears, to look around at the world you've had a hand in saving and realize that there is still so much more work to be done -- knows how it can grab a man by the chest and squeeze, how easy it is to get caught up in the enormity of the task at hand and risk growing bitter in the face of how much more there is still left to be done. He can see it in his soldiers' faces, sometimes, when he makes his way to the tavern for a game of cards and a bit of socialization, as he watches the ones who grip their mugs too tight and raise their voices too loud as they vent their frustration about the mess the world has been left in.

It's difficult to keep patience with them, sometimes. Many of these men and women are young, and this is the first time they've ever survived something so enormous. There is no way to explain that the bright beacon of hope that had carried them through the war -- the idea that once the evil was defeated, it would all be _fine_ \-- had been false. He knows that they feel lied to, sometimes, and that there are those among them who simply want to slip away, allow someone else to set the world to rights that they'd saved.

And he understands that, he does.

He's been down this road before, and no one could have made the choice for him to stay and see the mess and destruction of Kirkwall through to something better. It had been his _responsibility_ , much more than it should be the burden of any of these soldiers who served under him here, but he still had to make that choice himself. He is -- proud, and humbled, honestly -- by the resolve and the grit of the people under his command, choosing to stay and continue to follow his orders, even when those orders send them to the furthest reaches of the country to act as little more than laborers and construction workers.

They are good people. He reminds himself of that when they let their frustration show, and it inspires him to work harder, to keep his own exhaustion and temper in check when each mail call brings more requests for aid, more evidence of how the world crumbled while they tired to save it. He remembers Kirkwall, remembers fighting to put things at least a little to rights to begin to make up for all that he'd done to help destroy it, and he has vowed to be a better leader to these men and women than he ever had.

He won't allow anyone to see the way it drags at him, too, how weary and heartsick he is to be doing this again -- to be struggling to pull a kingdom he loves back to its feet after being part of the agent to knock it down -- because they deserve better than that. He will show them that this long road ahead is one worth walking, and this, too, will be part of his penance.

Hands braced on the pommel of his sword, he tips his head back and allows his eyes to drift shut. It's early enough yet that he can hear the distant sounds of the men going through their morning drills, still a necessity even with the worst of the fighting behind them, and the brisk wind coming down from the mountains bites color into his face.

And of course, the moment he takes a second to himself, he can hear the sound of feet padding against stone steps, and he can only assume it's someone sent for him.

Resigned but not annoyed, he turns and offers a half-smile to the young woman striding purposefully toward him, shoulders relaxing a fraction when he notes that it's one of King Alistair's trusted soldiers. She's come by a time or two when business brings her through the area, and he's always found her to be direct and pleasant enough to speak to.

Her smile is wide and edging toward amused when she greets, "Ser. Message from the King."

He shifts, extending a hand automatically, and accepts the letter. It's thick and heavy, bearing the seal of the royal family, and he runs his thumb over it. "Thank you, Larken. It's good of you to deliver it personally."

Her shoulders roll back as she crosses her arms, leaning companionably against a stone outcropping. She's wearing her hair differently from the last time he saw her, Cullen notes, in a short-cropped style that favors her jaw and draws attention to her ears, rather than hiding them, as she used to.

He wholeheartedly approves.

"Was on my way here anyhow," she notes, chewing her thumbnail as she glances out across the mountains. She pulls a face, and Cullen can sympathize: that's not a pleasant trek on the best of days, and the weather's been miserable lately. "Or this way, at least. Meeting up with someone, and this seemed as good a stop as any. King got wind of it and asked me to take care of it."

After tucking the letter safely away, he turns and joins her, a respectable distance between the two of them. "We're always glad to have you."

For as much as the Inquisition is doing for the world, he knows Alistair is extending his influence as well, rallying his Teyrns and trying to move toward a more unified and stable Ferelden. They've been in fairly regular communication -- indeed, the only person he receives letters from more frequently is Dorian -- and for once, Cullen is... optimistic.

At his right, Larken exhales through her nose, a short, hard puff. "You'll want to read that sooner rather than later. No, it's not anything bad," she adds, grinning at his expression. "It's good news, actually. The best news. Very quiet yet, so try not to shout it from the battlements."

He inclines his head, chuckling softly. "I'll do my best. Have you arranged for accommodations yet?"

"Just about to," she says, pushing off from the stones and swiping her palms together. With another smile, she says, "I'll be seeing you, Commander," and heads back the way she came.

Curious, he pulls the letter back out and breaks the seal, resting his hip against the stone as he reads.

_Commander Rutherford,_

_Greetings, salutations, I hope you're well, blah, blah, blah. I'd be a lot more official normally (or that's what I like to say when I'm being watched, and Maker help me, I am always being watched) but my news is too good and my mood soaring too high to pretend at any sort of propriety. Over a decade of careful education and grooming, gone in an instant, because I, my friend and stoic pen pal, am getting **married**._

"What--" Cullen breathes, smile curling his mouth, and re-reads the last sentence, just to be sure.

Andraste's _ass_.

_Terribly difficult to believe, isn't it? Farlene finally returned in the wake of all that mess you cleaned up -- thank you again for that, by the way, and your continued support as I endeavor to restore our great kingdom to something resembling order -- and it occurred to me that I have survived two attempts at the end of the world, which is rather more often than most people do. I know it's simply not done to marry outside of the noble houses, especially not for the King of Ferelden, but I also know I simply do not give a single rat's tit anymore._

_There's a great deal of noise about how uncouth it is, how terrible for me to marry a Dalish elf, blah, blah, and honestly, I'm enjoying it a little bit. Eamon thinks too much, says the world's been shaken up enough as it is lately, but this is the right kind of shaken up, don't you think?_

_You're coming. I'm not accepting anything less than a why yes, Alistair, I would be more than happy to attend your upcoming nuptials, and if there are any violent outbursts or protests I'll not hold that against you, because this is going to be the happiest day of your life. You're also bringing a date, because I can't decide if it's more horrifying for you to attend my wedding single and sulk alone the entire time or try to pick someone up there, so you're just going to have to spare me from considering either._

_If you have any trouble finding someone, I would be delighted to put forward Larken as an exceptional possibility. She volunteered to take the letter to you **personally** , my friend. She's also a very clever, terrifyingly strong girl, which is right up your alley, if I'm not much mistaken._

Grimacing, Cullen mutters, "Maker's breath, Alistair," and flips to the next page.

_Either way, I've enclosed a formal invitation, and if you don't agree to come of your own volition, I will send someone to fetch you in a supremely embarrassing manner. There will be food, drinking, dancing, and general revelry the likes no one's experienced in far longer than we should admit, and I'd love to have you there. I promise no one will try to poison you! We aren't like those Orlesians, Maker forbid._

_Let me know. Also, you're friends with a Dorian Pavus, are you not? He's stirring up a fair bit of interest in Tevinter, so my loyal spies say. The company you keep, my friend -- I never would have suspected it of you. Good on you._

_King Alistair Theirin_

The official invitation is ornate and beautiful, and Cullen has a moment to reflect on the absolute nightmare it will be to attend a royal wedding before he dismisses it, because it is an honor to be asked. More than that, Alistair is his friend and his King. If duty calls for him to dress up in highly uncomfortable, showy clothing and politely decline dancing with any number of men and women (and oh, _Maker_ , the marriage proposals will start up again, won't they?) then that's what duty calls of him.

He strides into his office, closing the door quietly behind him, and settles down at his desk to pen a reply.

_King Alistair,_

_I am humbled and honored to accept your invitation. I may never forgive you for it, but I will be there, rest assured. Congratulations as well -- you and Warden Mahariel deserve this, and hang anyone who has a cross word to say about it._

_Yours faithfully,_  
_Cullen Rutherford_

He taps the feather of his quill against his lips, brow furrowing slightly, and grabs another piece of parchment while he has the thought in his head.

_Dorian,_

_What sort of trouble are you stirring up that the King of Ferelden is posting me about you? You've been holding out._

_Also, stop cheating. It's far more obvious from a distance._

_Yours,_  
_Cullen Rutherford_

Glancing to the chessboard at his side, he smiles faintly, sweeping his gaze over the slow and steady progress their game has made across the board. He'd allowed Dorian's less-than-savory move this last time, mostly because it was so like him that it almost made the distance seem marginally less, but no more.

He can't have the man getting spoiled from both ends of the map, after all.


	4. peace of mind

_My dear Commander,_

_I have been behaving myself quite as well as you would expect. So, only a handful of attempts have been made on my life, usually at parties. It's all very bland and usual for Tevinter, so I wouldn't worry your pretty little head about it. You've got quite enough of a mess on your hands without wondering who's had a sharp wind blow up their skirt here, I assure you. I am curious that the King of Ferelden had something to say, however -- how very flattering._

_I am astounded and tragically offended that you would insinuate that I cheat at chess, by the by. Simply because you uncouth southerners don't recognize a perfectly legal move that is commonplace in strategy here in the Imperium does not mean that I am cheating, and I have enclosed, for your perusal, a rulebook that will back me up entirely in this matter. On that same note, no one appreciates sour grapes, Commander, and just because I have the upper hand doesn't mean you need to be hurling accusations of foul play._

_You're lucky I like you, honestly, or I'd be far more offended._

_In addition to the rulebook, you'll notice a prettyish little stone. I must admit, I have hesitated to send it along -- I do know how you sometimes feel about magic, despite our deep and abiding friendship -- but my impatience has won out over my consideration for your delicate constitution. It's a communication crystal, enchanted so that we may speak long-distance with rather more immediacy than the post allows. (You may attempt to argue your case for my cheating, as you put it, in real time rather than waiting weeks for the turnaround.)_

_Well, duty calls, which is a terrible little phrase that the both of us have shackled our lives to, so I'll cut this off short. As always, I eagerly anticipate the day your bone-weary fingers can manage to scratch out more than five sentences in response to my delightful ramblings, but I shan't hold my breath for it._

_Yours,_  
_Dorian Pavus_

The letter has been finished for three days, sitting benignly at the corner of his desk beneath a thin book and a small wrapped box, and Dorian may yet scrap it entirely and write something new. It's not that he's embarrassed by the contents, per se, it's just that -- he has a rather good thing going with the Commander, despite all of his apparent efforts to destroy it, and it's difficult to take the measure of a relationship from a distance. That they'd become friends during their frantic bid to save the world was unlikely enough, if not entirely surprising, but the fact that they managed to maintain a friendship in the months following the glorious final fight certainly... is. He would hate to ruin that by seeming overeager and reminding him of his botched attempt at flirtation.

Dorian doesn't have much experience with friends. He had Felix, the best and truest of friends, and from time to time he still catches himself grieving the loss of both son and father. Not that Alexius is actually dead, but rotting away in prison doesn't do much for a man's social life, and aside from one brief visit while he'd still been at Skyhold, Dorian hasn't seen or heard from him. Sometimes he feels guilty about that, and wonders if he doesn't owe Felix more than just a passive acceptance of Alexius' fate, but he shoves that to the back of his mind when the thought stubbornly surfaces.

He's very good at compartmentalizing, and always has been. It is, perhaps, why he and the Commander remain friends. Or perhaps Cullen is just as good at it as he is, and he's overthinking things again, as usual.

Ah, yes, that's more likely. Cullen does seem like a man who will repress what he can't bulldoze through, and Dorian can't imagine he would linger overlong on an unpleasant, awkward encounter unless he had a good reason to. The both of them have been lucky enough to live as long as they have, retaining the few true friends they've managed to find -- why spoil that over a hiccup?

"Right, on the way out you are," he murmurs to the stack of mail, scooping it up and tucking it against his side. The Commander will make of it what he chooses -- and use the crystal or not -- and he tells himself that it doesn't matter to him either way.

That behind him, he strides across the room and out, closing the door securely behind himself. He'll take care of posting it before lunch with Maevaris, and with any luck, the entire business will be less of an ordeal than he's imagined it to be.

He's only just set the parcels aside when the doorbell rings, chiming softly, and he glances toward the entrance hall in faint bemusement. Though Dorian isn't expecting anyone, it's not entirely unheard of for him to have a caller in the early evening, though most know better than to turn up unannounced. This limits the options of who it could be, and also narrows the prospect of it being a pleasant visit. 

(Politics, he maintains, will never be pleasant. He may have returned to Tevinter to turn it on its head, but it's a tedious, aggravating, soul-sucking process, and he's sure it will have added twenty years to his brow before he's done with it. Sometimes, a bottle of wine passing between long, loose fingers, he'll moan to Maevaris about it, and she'll humor him to a point, but they're both well aware there's nothing they'd rather be doing than trying to drag their beloved country up out of the festering pile of shit it's allowed itself to roll in for the past century or so.)

That being said, potential assassins generally don't display enough manners to ring the bell, but Dorian has heard of stranger things. Vaguely wary, he curls his right hand into a loose fist, stirring the beginning of a particularly nasty fire spell in his palm, and swings the door open.

The last person he expects to see is -- "Rilienus."

Silence thrums between them, heavy and stifling, before Rilienus smiles. It's a tentative thing, and it still twists inside Dorian's chest, wraps careful, gentle fingers around his lungs and squeezes.

"I--" Rilienus swallows, gaze skittering off to the side. "May I come in, Dorian?"

"Of course." He closes his hand around the half-formed spell, extinguishing it, and sidesteps to allow him inside. "To what do I owe the pleasure, old friend?"

The door closes softly behind him, and it kills Dorian, just a little bit, how he hesitates. The years between this meeting and their last show in the lines at the corners of his friend's eyes, a little deeper than they were, and the grey at his temples, new. The beauty mark at the corner of his mouth still lifts and falls with the slightest twitch of his smile, though, and Dorian remembers pressing breathless kisses to it, laughing and dreaming and hoping that things could be -- _something_ , one day, and --

Rilienus swallows, lifting his hand to cup the side of Dorian's face, as he has a hundred times in the past. "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I was... afraid, and... Maker, I've been an ass. I've missed you."

The move is so familiar that it aches, and Dorian closes his eyes, breathing in shallowly once, twice. It's familiar, save for the heavy, warm weight of a jeweled band, resting softly against his cheekbone.

He could draw back, could put an end to this before it ever even starts again, but there's a quiet voice in the back of his mind that whispers, soft and treacherous: Why should he? Why _should_ he turn away from this, from him? Yes, their circumstances have changed, and yes, seeing him again _hurts_ in its own quiet way, but Dorian is not a fool. It was never not going to hurt between Rilienus and him, and it was never not going to be difficult.

( _He would have said yes._ )

And this isn't yes, it isn't, but it's the closest that Dorian's ever found, so he brings his hand up, settles it over the back of Rilienus' whiskey-tanned knuckles, and turns to press a kiss into his open palm.

"I've missed you as well, amatus."


	5. the status quo

"You're far too distracted for this meeting, darling."

Maevaris' sharp voice cuts into his thoughts abruptly, and Dorian scowls, lifting an elegantly decorated hand and waving it between them. The arch of her eyebrow is pointed and, had he not known her as many years as he has, he might even feel a touch of shame for so obviously checking out in the middle of their conversation, but he and Mae are the best kind of old friends. He doesn't have many people like her in his life -- people he can trust to stand up for what's right, people who will sweep aside the years spent apart chasing their own ambitions and reunite for the common good -- and he values her, truly.

He also wishes she weren't so blighted smug about, well, everything.

The look on her face is downright damning, and before she can say anything, he rolls his eyes. "Well, my dear, we have gone over the same talking points three times already this afternoon. Honestly, if you just wanted an excuse to enjoy the wine, we could do away with all the business end of lunch."

Mae shifts, her dress rustling softly, as she sets her wineglass aside and leans on the table. Everything about her is perfectly polished, perfectly practiced; whereas Dorian can play the game and move to the steps of the dance if focuses on it, Maevaris is a living and breathing portrait: _Sophisticated Tevinter Woman, oil on canvas_.

It would be funnier if she could ever turn it off, he thinks, if she hadn't had to learn to be above and beyond all the rest of them for her very survival, but they all have their burdens. He is... happy for his friend, that she can be the woman that she was born to be publicly, that she can so elegantly shit all over the Imperium's ideas of gender and conformity. He  _is_. He is also just a touch envious, though he knows he has no right to be, because there is a part of him that aches to be even half so visible as she, but he is not brave enough.

His rings clink against the stem of his glass, and he brings it to his mouth, hiking both of his brows at her.

Mae hums under her breath, eyes steady on his face. "You are being careful, Dorian?"

"Now, Mae," he murmurs, smile curling around the lip of his wineglass. "You know I'm no good at careful."

"I mean it." Her eyes narrow a fraction, not in anger, but in consideration. "We're at a very precarious place. Dorian, I believe we're almost ready to make our move, our real move -- we can establish the Lucerni as a political party. We have enough support to begin."

Hope, bright and hot, bursts in his chest, and he can't help the helpless flutter of his smile. A year in the making, a _year_ full of subtle inquiries and finding places to put pressure, a year of kissing ass where he could and coming just short of blackmail where he couldn't, and it is finally coming together. He's not naive enough to think that it will be easy, or that actually forming the Lucerni is anything more than a stepping stone toward the eventual reform they hope to guide the Imperium through, but Maker, it's a _start_.

"We can't really afford to misstep, is my point."

Her words, carefully and levelly spoken, are a splash of ice water down his front, and the smile falls from his face. "I assure you, Maevaris, I am the last person who would endanger our efforts."

"You wouldn't on purpose," she says, and he admires the fact that she doesn't even flinch from the sharp edges of his tone. "But if there's one thing you're easily led by, it's your heart."

The truth of it is too close, too brutal for him to not resent her for it, and he taps his pinky against the outside of his knee, gaze sliding away. "Not where I thought you were going with that. Honestly, you missed a golden opportunity, Mae. It's unlike you."

The only reason she catches him by surprise with her next move is because he was fool enough to take his eyes off her. He yelps, wine sloshing over his knuckles as Maeveris hooks a finger in the collar of his tunic and tugs him forward, gaze unimpressed over the unmistakable dark patch of a love bite on his collarbone.

The silence stretches between them for a few heavy beats before he swats her hand away, unreasonably annoyed. "My _heart_ has very little to do with sex, Maevaris. I'm very good at drawing lines, which seems to be something you're struggling with. Boundary lines, that is."

He smooths a hand down his front, watching her settle back in her chair with the air of a woman who has made her point and knows it well, and ignores the sliver of unease curling in his stomach. He hadn't thought about it, hadn't even considered that the timing might have been too good -- that Rilienus may have had ulterior motives beyond escaping the screaming hell that a forced marriage and a pretend life must be -- and he wonders, briefly, if he's been played to be the fool.

If this is just one more case of someone creeping close enough to cup his cheek in one hand and drive a knife up through his ribs with the other, he -- supposes he would have no one to blame but himself, but that just doesn't seem like Rilienus. Is it childish to hold onto that, to the image of the young man he'd fallen head over heels in love for? (To hope that at least, no matter how much else has changed, Rilienus remains a good man despite his circumstances? Probably. He'll accept it, and he'll deal with the fallout if he must.)

The fundamental difference between himself and Maevaris, he supposes, is that he'll lead himself to the slaughter with his damnable optimism, and she'll allow opportunity to pass her by before she'll trust in the nature of men. He can't really blame her, honestly, and perhaps he'd be smart to take a leaf out of her book, but that's why they have one another.

She grounds him, and he shoves her off a cliff when she's digging her claws in the dirt and refuses to take a leap of faith. It's all very poetic, he thinks, twisting the rings free from his right hand and blotting the wine from them.

"Well," Mae breaks into the silence, voice pitching thoughtfully. "This is how it truly begins, isn't it?"

"With debauchery and wine," he agrees, answering her smile, fierce and sharp, with one of his own. "How very fitting. To us, my darling Maevaris."

"To us," she agrees, downing the last of her wine. "And to our country. Perhaps one day it will even deserve us, Dorian."


	6. a chance for something new

Between the time difference and foolish, slightly shameful hesitance on his part, Cullen has been putting off using the communication crystal to reach out to Dorian. It isn't that he's concerned about the nature of the magic involved -- he trusts Dorian implicitly, and though there had been a time he knows he would not have been capable of such a thing, he has grown enough as a man to put aside his fear and his prejudice -- it's simply that he actually has no idea how to use it. For all that he loathed and resented mages for so many years, he had barely more than a working man's knowledge of magic for much of his life, and his hatred had been born from fear and ignorance.

At Kinloch, he'd only needed to know enough about magic to understand what it looked like when it was going wrong, after all. In comparison to the young men and women whose Harrowings he'd stood over, Dorian's particular brand of magic (and much of Tevinter's, he supposes, considering how different the social climate is there regarding magic) and the expression of it is like nothing he's ever seen before. Even Vivienne and Solas had been more familiar, more what he was used to in a mage, but he'd still never made much of an effort to understand them, how their magic worked.

Part of him had still been... not afraid, but reserved, he supposes. Teaching himself to put the past behind him, to bury the bones of the skeletons that kept him so grounded in the mindset that allowed him to be party to so many atrocities at Kirkwall, has been a long and difficult process, and he knows it's one that still is not finished. As much as he trusts Dorian, as much as he respects him, he still finds himself thinking of the man as an _exception_ , and that shames him, some.

He fancies himself as having come so far, sometimes, and then the truth of the matter slaps him in the face when he hesitates to reach out to a lesser known mage to ask for help.

So he puts it off, long enough that he almost finds himself turning to parchment to write another letter instead of just asking for assistance, and that's when he realizes what a fool he's being. Embarrassed and annoyed with himself, he sets aside the never-ending list of his pending communications and lets his resolve carry him to the library, a short walk that is far less familiar these days than it has been in years past.

It's strange, still, to see anyone else occupying the space that used to be so essentially Dorian's, but he doesn't begrudge anyone else use of the facilities, meager as they still are. It has been both a delight and a vexation for them all to find that Dorian had taken to sketching notes into the margins of certain books, correcting old print and adding insight in most cases -- and simply throwing a fit and mocking the author in others -- and so he supposes that the space really does still belong to his friend, regardless of whether he is here or not.

It takes a powerful sort of presence to occupy a space from a kingdom away, and it occurs to Cullen as he clears the last step and turns toward the familiar little nook that he _misses_ the other man. This shouldn't be all that surprising, and yet it is, and he slows his steps, brow furrowing a little as he contemplates it.

Of course he misses all of his friends and former comrades, that was never in question. There's Josephine only recently returned to Antiva, Varric back to Kirkwall with all the best of intentions, Vivienne whom he only sees when it is necessary for the Inquisition and the Chantry to communicate, even Bull and his Chargers set out not three days ago -- in truth, he only sees Cassandra and the Inquisitor as often as he does because the three of them have precious few places left for them to return. Once the Inquisition itself is fully disbanded, they'll all go their separate ways as well, and he has made his peace with that.

Perhaps he feels the loss more pointedly because Dorian left so abruptly, and on less than ideal terms, he reasons with himself, but there is a small part of him that knows that is not the entire truth. Whatever else Dorian might have hoped for and wanted from him, for _them_ , Cullen counts the other man among his closest and truest friends, and knows that even with more warning, he would notice Dorian's absence in his life just as keenly.

Maker, he hadn't played chess with anyone until they picked up their games again through the mail. He hadn't necessarily spent all his free time with Dorian, but they'd certainly spent a good portion of it together, and that -- that must be it, he decides.

He offers the young mage -- Edelyn, if he's not mistaken -- a smile, and raps his knuckles against the wall to get her attention.

"Ser Rutherford," she greets, hands stilling where they were moving reverently over the pages of an ancient tome, and cocks her head. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," he says, hand settling over the pocket that contains the communication crystal, almost absently. "I have a favor to ask. A friend sent me a communication device, and I confess I... have no idea how to use it."

Intrigued, Edelyn marks her place in the book and sets it aside, beckoning him closer. She's much smaller than Dorian, and the chair that he so often filled seems to dwarf her. "This friend is a mage, I take it? Is it a crystal?"

His relief at her quick deduction must be obvious on his face, because she laughs, light and amused. He removes the gem from his pocket, offering it to her, and she accepts it eagerly.

"Oh, this is nice," she breathes, rolling it along her palm. "I've never actually held one, you know. They're rather precious around these parts. Is this from Ser Pavus?"

A bit startled, he responds immediately, "Well, yes." and then closes his mouth firmly, unsure why the admission feels a little too personal. "Why do you ask?"

Her smile is a little bit brittle as she lifts her shoulders. "Mages haven't really had leave to communicate openly around here for long, have they? Wouldn't find many of us with one of these."

"I--" He swallows, reaching up to massage the back of his neck. "--yes, that does make sense. I apologize."

"For what?" She asks curiously, craning her neck to take a good look at him. After a moment, she waves her hand, and her smile eases into something more natural. "Don't trouble yourself, ser. Things are better now, aren't they? Thanks to the Inquisitor. For now, though! This is interesting."

She rises, robes rustling softly as she does, and holds it out to him. "It's actually very simple. First, place it snug in your palm, just so..."

***

He's surprised that it works, though he isn't exactly certain why he's surprised. He follows Edelyn's steps to the letter, and after only a heartbeat's hesitation, the crystal glows in his hand and he can feel the magic pulsing out of it, soft and warm. Once up on a time, even that would have been unwelcome, and yet he feels nothing but relief when the connection is opened and he hears Dorian's voice for the first time in over a year.

"Commander," Dorian greets, so familiar and teasing that Cullen can't help but smile, wide and helpless. "I was rather afraid this got lost in transit. This _is_ the Commander, isn't it?"

"Dorian." It should startle him how fondly Dorian's name rolls off his tongue, but honestly, he can't get over the marvel of the magic in his hands. In the not so distant past, he would have never thought something like this possible, would never have even wanted to experience it in the first place, and now he holds the crystal before him like something precious. He'd been told that he doesn't need to speak directly into it, but he does anyway, watching pale purple swirl under the surface of the gem. "It's good to hear from you."

There is a brief pause, and then Dorian returns, "You sound surprised. Did you doubt my magic? Tsk, tsk."

"No." He passes it snugly into one hand, bringing the opposite up to rub over his mouth, trying to subdue his smile. It doesn't work. "I doubted my own competency in operating it. This is -- remarkable, truly. Does it cost you mana to make it work?"

Dorian laughs, a short puff of air, and teases, "Careful, Commander. You almost sound interested in magic."

"I confess I _am_ ," he admits, and before Dorian can grab onto that and run with it, he hurries to add: "But more interested, I think, in that book of rules you enclosed with this. You realize the move you referenced is illegal even in that text, don't you?"

"You weren't supposed to actually read it." Dorian's voice is dry and amused, and he sighs as he adds, "You had no friends growing up, did you? Always having to be right."

Far from offended, Cullen merely returns, "Who needs friends when you're winning?" and is pleased by a genuine laugh, short and startled, that bursts out of the crystal.

"Unbearable. Even from across country lines, you're still impossible to live with."

"It's my special talent," Cullen agrees, leaning forward to fuss with the stacks of papers on his desk. "And in a few moves, I'll have this game as well, despite your best efforts at unsportsmanlike behavior."

It's difficult for him to imagine where Dorian is, what he's doing -- if he's as comfortable as Cullen is now, with the day leeching into night and a candle burning low on the corner of his desk -- but he hopes so. With all that's happened and all that is to happen still, he hopes that Dorian can take small comforts where they arise, and that their conversations can continue to serve the purpose they did back when Corypheus was the most pressing thing bearing down on them all.

"Are you falling asleep on me, Commander?"

He doesn't realize that he's missed his cue to speak until Dorian prompts him, and he shakes his head sharply, dismissing both the memories and the distraction they provide. Now is the time for light-hearted conversation, for catching up with friends; between the two of them, they'd already spent too long lingering on Corypheus. 

He will have no more of either of them, Cullen decides. "No. Simply reflecting on how much is behind us, and how much is still before us. How are you, Dorian?"

"What an odd question." There's another pause, though it feels somehow more thoughtful than the last, and then Dorian's voice carries, light and unbothered. "I'm always well. The political games are as brutal and awful as they ever were, but Maevaris and I are making real headway, and soon there may even be something to talk about. No rest for the wicked, and all that, which means you should have your feet propped up on your desk by now, hm?"

"Hardly." Cullen snorts, passing the crystal between his hands thoughtfully. "Though I feel less and less useful as each day passes. Soon the Inquisition will likely be disbanded all together, did you know that?"

"Does that bother you?"

"No." He's thought about it, more as of late than ever before, and he's come to realize that he would be all right stepping out of the eye of the storm for a little while. All of his life, he's gone from one institution to the next, terror after terror chasing one another in such rapid succession that he could barely catch his breath, and he thinks it will be nice to settle down and see where the world has left him.

Nice, and vaguely terrifying. Perhaps he'll spend more time with his family, if they aren't perfect strangers to him by the time he manages to make it back to them, or he'll... well, he'll do something.

Though he hasn't shared it with anyone else so far, he finds himself wanting to bounce ideas off Dorian, see if he thinks Cullen's half-baked plans for the future are as ridiculous and far-reaching as he fears they are. Who better to talk to about impossible dreams, after all, than the man who went back to Tevinter in the hopes of single-handedly changing a thousand years' worth of decline?

Into the silence, he says, a little softer than he means to, "The goal was always to eventually not need the Inquisition. I'll be happy when that day comes to pass. Perhaps I'll even... I've given some thought, for the first time in a long time, to what I'd do without all this."

"Oh?" He can't tell by Dorian's tone whether he's actually interested or not, but given that the Dorian he knows has very little patience for anything that he's deemed a waste of time, Cullen supposes he'll give him the benefit of the doubt. The man's not shy, after all.

(He's also not cruel, and Cullen imagines that he's humoring him at least a little bit, but it's still nice to have someone to talk to about this. The distance helps, he thinks, lends a sort of unreality to the conversation that almost means it won't have any consequences in his real life, or that it's not... so frightening to think of, if he's only discussing it with Dorian.)

"Retirement's looking better and better," he says, smile flickering in and out of life as he mulls his words over, chooses them carefully. "I know you hate them, but I would like a Mabari. Only if I have land, and if I have land I'll either farm, or I'll..."

 _Set up a sanctuary_ , he thinks, bringing a hand up to massage the knot at the base of his skull. For people like him, ex-templars trying to curb their addiction to lyrium, a means to help them through it if he can. He'd like to establish a place of comfort where those who couldn't wean themselves from it could at least live out their last days in peace, because he thinks they are owed that, if nothing else, for their lives of service.

Putting that into words seems a little too intimidating, though, and the silence stretches until Dorian prompts him with a casual, "Well, don't leave me in suspense, Commander."

"A sanctuary," he blurts, face going hot despite the fact that there's no one present to witness him becoming flustered. He takes a moment to level out his tone, and continues calmly, "For ex-templars. It's a lofty idea, I know, but I think if I can get my hands on enough land, I could do some good and... pay back a bit of the good done for me."

"You know," Dorian says, sounding a touch irritated for the first time, "You've already done rather a lot of good for the world. Or does saving it from doom and despair not count these days?"

Slightly taken aback, Cullen returns, "I was given a chance here, a chance I'm still not certain I fully deserved. I'd like to pay that back. I would have expected you, of all people, to understand wanting to do better by those who are deserving of it."

"Me, of all people?" He can picture the look on Dorian's face, the slightly arched brow and the challenge in his gaze, and it's annoying. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Don't pretend what you're doing isn't noble and isn't mostly for other people," Cullen argues, brows knitting as he leans forward in his chair, fingers curling a little tighter around the crystal. "Dorian, you're changing the entire  _Imperium_. You're trying to make the world a better place, and I admire that. Very much. I won't pretend I haven't done good here, but I do really think I owe it--"

"You owe nothing to _anyone_ , Cullen." There's a resounding thump, possibly the sound of a fist hitting the surface of a desk, and then Dorian's voice gentles. "I hate this kind of thing, so I'm going to be brief and then we're going to be done talking about this. If you do this, do it because you _want_ to. You've done so much for other people already, so stop comparing that to what anyone else is doing. Don't do this out of some misplaced sense of guilt, or because you feel like you don't -- you don't deserve to be happy unless you're in _service_ to the world."

Cullen closes his mouth, heart fluttering strangely, as Dorian's brisk tone continues to be the loudest thing in the room.

"Do you want to fuck off to a farm with a dog and marry some pretty druffalo herder's daughter and never so much as look at another soldier again for the rest of your life? Do that. No one, not even you, my dear Commander, can convince me that you don't deserve it. But if you want to do this other thing? This stupidly noble thing that it sounds like your dumb Fereldan heart is set on? Do that, but only if that is how you want to spend your golden years, my friend."

Face hot, and oddly more touched than he would have expected to be, Cullen struggles for a few moments to find words to convey his gratitude for Dorian's unexpected speech. It's not so much the words, because anyone could deliver the same to him and he would have just as difficult a time actually accepting and believing the notion that he could simply be and that would be enough, but the fact that it's coming from Dorian of all people that just -- settles, warm and heavy, in his ribs.

"Thank you," he says, very quietly, and rubs his thumb over the gem's surface. "I... will take that into consideration, Dorian."

Dorian sniffs, and it should break the spell of the moment when he says, "See that you do." but somehow, it doesn't.

 


	7. a safe distance

He has had a shitty day, and the last thing he needs at the close of his tremendously shitty day is to come home to find his father in the foyer.

The door slams smartly behind him, and he stands with his hands balled into loose fists at his sides, head throbbing just enough that he can't keep the misery and the annoyance off his face when Halward turns and frowns at him. Without a word, Dorian breezes past his father, already reaching to unfasten his cloak, and they continue like this for a handful of moments, intimidatingly silent and equally unwilling to make an opening gambit.

 _Too alike_ , Halward had told him that day, and it still rings true.

His gestures are jerky and far more telling than he would like, and his father waits him out through removing his cloak and hanging it in the closet, gaze heavy and itching between Dorian's shoulder blades. Since that conversation in the pub, they've only spoken a handful of times, each conversation terse and tense, but thankfully less emotional than the display the Inquisitor had been subject to in Redcliffe.

He hates to think that he's about to break that streak, but today has been very long and there are too many things requiring his attention, too many sharp edges pressing on his nerves, for this talk to go well.

So he spins, watching something like surprise flicker over his father's face, and demands, "What do you want, father? Now is not a convenient time for me."

Hands laced in front of him, Halward inclines his head, lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment's consideration, he says, "Dorian, I am worried for you."

Dorian's fingers fumble on the bracelet he's twisting from his wrist, a startled, incredulous laugh pulled from his chest. "Oh, good. Because the last time you were _worried_ for me went so well. Should I be concerned?" His words are sharp and pointed, and though he thinks they've moved past this, he can't help the abrupt, sudden twist of panic in his chest, the idea that there might be someone else on their way, if not already waiting, in his home. "Are you alone, or do I need to be watching my back?"

It's pain in his father's face now, unmistakable and absolutely infuriating. He deserves to hurt from the words, Dorian reasons, even as his stomach clenches sickly at the thought of being the person to wound him, even after all these years. Nevertheless, his father's voice is steady as he says, "The Lucerni is gaining traction, and there is... talk. Of how to handle it."

"There has been _talk_ for years," Dorian throws back, lifting his hands above his head in a sharp, dismissive gesture. "Maevaris and I have handled it so far, and we will continue to do so. Do you think I don't hear the same talk you do, father?"

"Dorian." His name, short and stern, takes Dorian back twenty years, and he falters for a moment. It's all the time Halward needs, and he steps forward, extending a hand. "It is more than just talk. I fear that you pose a real threat, and you know how this works. You are not safe, and I want to help."

The breath is punched out of his lungs abruptly, leaving him winded, and before he can think better of it he's _babbling_. "You -- you do not -- I do not need," he licks his lips, traitorous, greasy hope coiling in his stomach. "Why? What would you get out of this except a target painted on your own back?"

"You are my son," and for the first time, Halward's voice breaks, as startling to him as it is to Dorian. He takes a moment to compose himself, bringing a hand up to his mouth, and then drops it to his side. "I have made mistakes, and I know you hate me for that. But Dorian, you must let that go. One day, you are going to have to understand--"

"No!" He slams his hand against the smooth, polished surface of an end table, and the candlesticks shake. "We have been over this, time and time again, and I... I cannot forgive what you did."

To his eternal shame, his eyes burn, and he blinks several times, willing the emotion back. _Please, Maker_ , he thinks, _Spare me this, at least_. He won't cry in front of his father, he won't sink so low.

The man might know he still has a chokehold on Dorian, but he'll be damned if he gives him the satisfaction of seeing it.

But instead of triumph, Halward's face falls into something that looks like shame, and he murmurs, "I know. Dorian, this is beyond my sins, beyond our hurts. I am afraid for you, I am afraid you will be--" He inhales, hand flexing at his side, and Dorian tries very hard not to think about how that is one of his own tells. "You **will** be killed."

It's a statement, and as much as Dorian hates himself, into the quiet that follows, he asks softly, "And that is worse than being reduced to a mindless, drooling shell? Would you have hated me less in a future where I could not make the choices that so disgust you, even if I could not make any choices at all?"

Halward lifts a shaking hand to his forehead, presses his fingertips to his temples, and says bitterly, "You willful, stubborn boy."

"This is not on me, father." His voice quakes, but he lifts his chin, blinking hard. "I loved you until you made it impossible. The fault for this does not lie with me."

"I never hated you," Halward says slowly, each word carefully enunciated. He gestures between them, palms up, and his hands are bare. "I hated the life you would have had. I hated the opportunities you would miss, I hated how difficult things would be for you, and I was afraid that you would throw your entire life away for something that... for a privilege, not a right."

Dorian opens his mouth, closes it, and struggles to find words.

"It made me cruel, and there is nothing I regret more than trying to use _blood magic_ to--" Halward swallows hard, contempt etched deep in the lines of his face, anger making his eyes hard and dark. "But regret does not change what was. I am trying, Dorian. Because you are my son, and I love you."

It hurts, clawing up his ribcage and setting fire to him from the inside, and Dorian rasps, "Don't."

Halward reaches out, settling a hand above Dorian's elbow, touch feather-soft. "Please understand. I am not a perfect man, but I will not see you die when there is something I can do. I want to help, Dorian. However I can."

Tears spill over, sickeningly hot against flushed cheeks, and Dorian jerks his shoulder back, dislodging his father's arm. "Don't pretend to be noble. You were more concerned with our image, with the idyllic life you had planned, and any consideration for -- for me, for my happiness, was trumped by that. Let's call an ass an ass, father, let's be honest for once in our _fucking_ lives."

"The one doesn't negate the other," Halward says quietly, and Dorian wants to spit back that it does, it does, it _does_ , but the words get caught in his throat, sticky and hot.

He swipes at his cheeks, furious with himself, and points to the door. "I'm expecting company. You know your way out."

Silently, Halward leaves, and in his wake, Dorian struggles to breathe.

***

He is drunk, miserably so, when Rilienus slips into the bedroom and crawls across his knees on the bed, but they don't talk about it.

They don't talk about anything anymore, and Dorian loses himself in the pressure of warm hands against cool, clammy skin, closes his eyes on a world that won't stop whirling, and tells himself that this is fine.

He presses into the warmth of another person, tries to drag meaning out of the nauseating carnival ride of his life, and when it's over and Rilienus is leaving again, he fists his hands in the sheets and does not feel -- anything.

It's a blessed relief.


	8. optimism

Cullen has the crystal pinched between his fingers, hesitating on whether or not he will try to reach out to Dorian -- it's been the better part of a week since they last spoke, and while he would usually consider that perfectly normal, the last time they had spoken there had been something off about his friend -- when there is a brief knock on the door opposite his desk. He calls out for them to enter, cupping the crystal against his palm and tucking it away in a pocket, more out of habit than any real need to conceal the fact that he has it. No one who remains would care, after all, it simply is... personal, he supposes. 

He can't put his finger on the source of his reluctance, but for now, it is enough to know that it exists.

When the door swings open to reveal the Inquisitor, however, he wonders if he shouldn't have tried regardless. Surely Dorian would like to speak to him, and if there is anyone whom Cullen wouldn't mind sharing his direct link to Dorian with, it's Gog.

"Inquisitor," he greets, smile faint but present. "Can I help you?"

Gog shuts the door behind him, an oddity in and of itself (how often has he had to rise from his desk to close two, if not all three, of his office's doors after someone breezed through?) and the look on his face inspires a similar gravity in Cullen. Half-rising, he asks, "Has something happened?"

"No," Gog replies, lifting a hand to gesture Cullen back into his seat. "Well, not yet. You're aware that when Bull and the Chargers left, they headed to the north?"

It had been weeks ago now, and as far as Cullen is aware, they'd simply decided it was time to move on. According to Bull, work was better at the borders -- of anywhere, really, due to political skirmishes and conflicting ideologies -- and Cullen had wished them well. It's been more difficult than he imagined to watch all of his comrades in arms move on with their lives and venture off into new pursuits, but he's happy for them. More than that, he's happy that there exists a world where his friends _can_ pursue their dreams and ambitions, and that they now have the freedom to do so.

"Yes," he says, brow pinching slightly. "Have they already gotten themselves into trouble?"

Gog's smile is brief, but Cullen can see the worry edging into it. "It's more they ran headfirst for it. Before he left, Bull brought to my attention that the Qun is more active than usual, lately. His sources are rather more limited than they were, but I've also had Leliana put some of her people on it, and they can confirm that something's brewing."

Atop his desk, Cullen's hands curl into fists, something heavy settling in his chest. "Do we have an idea of precisely what?" As soon as he asks, he realizes, and has to bite back a curse. "Alistair's wedding. Of course."

"That's what we suspect," Gog agrees, crossing his arms and resting his hip against the corner of Cullen's desk. "Leliana suspects they have been waiting for our complacency. They've never been particularly happy with us for our alliance with the rebel mages, and our decision to spare the Chargers over the Dreadnought ensured us their enmity. We knew that it was only a matter of time."

Cullen is not surprised, because it is precisely the target he would have chosen were he leading the Qun's forces, but he is angry. Angrier than he expects to be, and certainly angrier than the Inquisitor expects; the hands fisted on his desktop are a poor vent for the swell of sudden, righteous fury at the idea of Alistair's wedding being determined as the kicking point for a new war, and he rises abruptly, chair pushing back with an inelegant wobble.

The world has barely begun to settle after Corypheus and his army were vanquished, and the scavengers are already circling, bloodthirsty and eager for any opportunity to tear open fresh wounds and bleed them dry. And for the sake of what? More war, more destruction, more heartache? There are days he feels he has spent his entire life chasing battles, and if he could, he would grab the shoulders of the young man who wanted this life, begged and pleaded for this life, and shake him senseless.

"Can we have no peace?" he demands, vitriol heavy in his voice, as he forces his hands to relax and his breath to remain steady. "We are barely a year past the greatest threat Thedas has seen outside of a Blight, perhaps even _greater_ than a Blight, and these scavengers are already --"

"Cullen." Gog reaches out, settling a hand just above Cullen's shoulder, and he has to fight to keep from jerking back. "I understand. But being angry doesn't change what's happening."

Cullen closes his eyes, drawing a deep breath, and releases. "Of course not. Forgive me, I... I suppose I take this a bit personally. Alistair is a friend, and he has given so much already. He does not deserve to have his wedding day be the eve of a fresh war."

"And if we can prevent that, we will." Gog's tone is firm, as is his grip when he circles Cullen's bicep. "On my honor, Cullen, we are not going to sit idly by and let the world go to ruin after all the work we put into saving it."

"Of course not," Cullen murmurs, just as the door opens.

Cassandra leans in, glancing between them, and addresses the Inquisitor. "Leliana wishes to speak to you."

"We expect you at the War Table in an hour," Gog says, not unkindly, and squeezes Cullen's arm once more.

He expects to be left alone, but the Inquisitor pauses next to Cassandra for a beat, a silence exchange taking place between them born only from deep familiarity. She nods once, shortly, and closes the door after him.

Reaching for his temples, Cullen rubs wearily. "Yes, Cassandra?"

One of his favorite things about Cassandra is that she never engages in double-talk and circumventing of the issue at hand. She's a refreshing breath of air in the all-too-often complicated mire of political dealings that the Inquisition has barreled through from the beginning, and he's considered her invaluable in the respect that she has almost always been the voice raised next to his, demanding that they cut through to the heart of the matter. Even when they two of them were opposed, he could always respect that, if not appreciate it.

That particular personality trait of hers is less appealing when it comes along with careful scrutiny of _himself_ , but it's no less important.

She glances at the paperwork on his desk, and whatever she sees doesn't seem to reassure her. 

"None of us are pleased by this news," she begins carefully, fingers brushing over a handful of field reports that he hasn't gotten around to signing off on and filing yet. "We could not be caught at a worse time, with our forces diminished and many of us absent from the Inquisition. That makes it all the more important that those of us who remain, remain fully."

A spark of anger flares to life in his chest, and he stands up straighter, meeting her look levelly. "Are you implying that I would begin now, of all times, to decline? You believe this will be what breaks my back?"

"No," Cassandra asserts, surprise briefly flickering over her face. It is followed by frustration, and she exhales loudly. "I was -- It did sound like I was criticizing you, didn't it? But what I meant, Cullen, was a compliment. Commiseration, perhaps. You and I are the kind of people who do not ever have one foot out the door. When we commit ourselves, we do so fully: heart, mind, soul, body. Which is why I am wondering what has put that look on your face, because duty has never been a burden you found too heavy to bear."

In her own way, she is worried, and Cullen recognizes that. It soothes some of his temper, and he inclines his head. "Forgive me. The assumption was unworthy. I confess, I am not upset for myself, and that makes it more difficult to bear. I will do better."

She sighs, reaching up to scratch blunt nails along her jawline. "Peace is a fragile thing, and it requires constant vigilance. This has always been particularly frustrating to me as well."

Because it's Cassandra, and because she might be the only other person who will truly understand -- so alike him in some ways, so much stronger and steadier than him in many others -- he gives voice to his thoughts, a wry smile twisting his mouth. "I only want to leave the world a better place than I found it. A better place than I helped _shape_ it," he adds, derision creeping into the corners of his tone, as familiar as it is uncomfortable. "That is not a task to be taken lightly, and not one that I believe will ever be finished."

And if he had begun to entertain thoughts otherwise, of laying down his arms and finding a new path in life, then he was more the fool for it. His penance is meant to be life-long, and if it maintains the same shape through the end of his days, so be it.

"That does not bother me." He exhales softly, leaning over his desk to begin organizing, if only to have something to occupy his hands. He's not good with words, not when he's taken outside of his role as a solider, a commander, a leader, and he doesn't quite know how to express his thoughts in this matter. "But Ferelden deserves more than this. Ferelden deserves some peace and _happiness_ , and it seems that before it can have it, there will always be one more battle."

The understanding in her face might have chafed were it anyone else, but Cassandra simply nods. "For us, there will always be one last battle, Cullen. We are up to the task. I have never believed otherwise."

"No, you haven't," he agrees on a murmur, glancing over to her with a smile. It's what makes her the best of them, he thinks idly, but he knows saying as much would only fluster her. He settles for, "And your faith inspires, as it always has."

She takes it about as gracefully as he would have, which is to say hardly at all, and waves a hand. "We do what we must. If the Qunari intend to try to start a war, it will not be easy."

He rounds his desk, snuffing out the candle as he does, and gestures across his office. "Shall we grab something to eat? I imagine this is going to be a long meeting, and I, for one, refuse to plan an offensive on an empty stomach."

Cassandra grins, turning with him, and he thinks: yes, there are still sacrifices to be made, and many of them should be his. He owes the world that, for the man he once was and the consequences of his actions, but also simply because it is the right thing to do.

Perhaps he is only meant for war, he thinks, falling into step with her as they head to the kitchens.

(Perhaps he's always known that, and it's only now that he's grown enough to choose his battles wisely.)


	9. hesitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, this was a long time coming! i'm trying to get back into the swing of things and actually get the plot moving on this fic, so... wish me luck! cullen and dorian should actually be in the same country in a few chapters, so that's something, right? riiiight?

If life were fair, he would get a bit of breathing room between one crisis and the next, but if there is one thing that Dorian has learned over the years, it's that life is rarely fair. At least fate has the decency to throw hurdles of different shapes and sizes at him -- one day it's his father, never quite apologizing and yet expecting to mend the ashes of the bridge between them, the next it's Maevaris recruiting him to ride herd on the more enthusiastic members of their freshly minted political party -- but he supposes it keeps the blood pumping, as it were.   
  
Never a dull moment in House Pavus, he thinks, and once his heart stops galloping from the unexpected realization that he is not alone in his own library, he might even find it funny.  
  
Expelling a long, slow breath, he says blandly, "You should count yourself lucky to not be aflame, Aclassi," and, Maker take him, he can't keep the exasperated fondness out of his tone.  
  
He hadn't realized how much he missed them, missed _all_ of them, until precisely this moment.  
  
Krem chuckles, shoulders rising and falling in a careless shrug, as he steps further into the light. "Hedged my bets. Good to see you too, by the way."  
  
"It is always good to see me," Dorian agrees, crossing the room to stand in front of his desk. A quick perusal of Krem's face shows him to be looking well, no worse for the wear for being in Tevinter, and it soothes something in Dorian to be assured of that. "I can't blame you for sneaking in. I'm not certain I could bear to be apart from myself, either."  
  
Rolling his eyes, Krem quips, "It's not me's been missing you, but I take your point. Come with news, actually, and at great personal risk to deliver it, so if you wouldn't mind--"  
  
"I don't keep _wine_ in the library." There is a long pause, and then Dorian sighs, lips twitching. "All right, so I do, but I'm not letting you soak it all up. I know the swill you're content with, and I wouldn't want to spoil you."  
  
He gestures to a plush armchair, taking a seat of his own as Krem settles, and takes a moment to consider how bizarre it is to have a member of the Iron Bull's Chargers kicking his feet up in his study. It's become a simple matter to separate his life into sections, give clearly defined boundaries to each phase of it -- there was the Tevinter of before, there was the Inquisition, and now he has Tevinter in the present, and all that is to come along with it -- and having Krem relaxing into velvet cushions as though he belongs there muddies the waters a bit.  
  
It isn't that he wants to close that chapter of his life, precisely, just that... he isn't certain how to let one end of it touch the other without causing grievous, irreparable harm to both.  
  
Enough of that, though. Dorian smiles slightly as he asks, "Is it just you, then? I'm almost hurt."  
  
With a chuckle, Krem returns, "You want to try sneaking a Qunari into Minrathous, Pavus? I mean, Chief could do it, but every once in a while I like to stretch my legs."   
  
"I see your point," Dorian concedes, his smile a little strained. "Not that this isn't a delightful surprise, but I assume you have bad news for me. It's always bad news," he adds, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. "No one ever bothers to visit with good news. So, out with it."  
  
"Cynicism like that's going to give you wrinkles," Krem says, but shifts backward in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I can't say you aren't right. Been harder to keep our ear to the ground lately, but Chief's pretty damned sure the Qun's going to make a move soon, and he's putting his money on Tevinter. Hit you hard and fast, drag the rug out from under you while everybody else's got their finger in their own pie."  
  
"I do appreciate your everyman's approach to politics." As light as his tone is, though, his stomach sinks with the surety of what Krem's saying. "The Qun hasn't moved on us in years. Why does Bull think they'll do so now?"  
  
Eyes patient, Krem hold's Dorian's gaze. "Why not? South's rebuilding after Corypheus, Inquisition's scattering. Forces are already halved, and that's a generous estimate. People want to go home, Pavus, they want the war to be done. King of Ferelden's marrying an elf, nobles've got their smalls in a twist over that, Cadash and the Divine are butting heads over the mages--"  
  
"Yes, yes, of course," Dorian murmurs, waving a hand between them. "And thanks to Mae and I, the Magisterium is up in arms about the Lucerni and the idea of a political revolution, so the entire world's gone to hell in a handbasket. Why not take advantage of the chaos hidden in the calm? You know, I really do hate the Qunari sometimes."  
  
"Motherless bastards," Krem agrees, smile a quick flicker. "We've been in touch with the Inquisition, too, and they're headed to the royal wedding. Might be that we've read this wrong and their target's going to be Denerim, might be they're going to go after the White Spire -- or might be they're dangling the idea of it to keep us busy while they come here. Chief thinks it's worth looking into, so here we are. Could be nothing."  
  
"But it certainly could be something, and there's no one you could tell aside from me," Dorian muses, picking at a seam with his thumbnail. "Who would believe you? For that matter, who in the world will believe me?"  
  
Krem rises, chair creaking as he does, and grins. "You're a clever guy, right?"  
  
"Clever is understating the case," he snorts, fighting back a smile as he watches Krem twist and pop his back. "But even I may have some difficulty selling the idea to the Magisterium. At best, I'll be seen as a sensationalist, at worst, accused of treason myself -- they do love to pull out treason and then begin the ritual beheadings -- and considering my time with the Inquisition, there are already murmurs that I fancy myself the North's version of a herald."  
  
"Which you don't, seeing as you're so modest and all," Krem returns smoothly.  
  
Dorian pulls a face. "Which I don't, considering I am much more a scholar than I am a religious nutjob, thank you. Worked well for Gog though, didn't it?"  
  
"Well enough." Krem rolls his eyes. "Look, you do as much as you can, that's all we're asking. Either they'll listen or they won't, and if you can't make 'em listen, it's up to you to pick up the Maker-forsaken pieces if this all goes to hell. Which we both know is how this is going to go."  
  
Dorian is no stranger to insurmountable tasks, and he takes a moment to remind himself that this is what he wanted. This is what he signed up for, returning to Tevinter after being away for years, throwing himself headlong into political aspirations that are more likely to get him killed than they are to evoke real change, and he does not regret it. A life of running had suited him when he was a young man, selfish and foolish and hurting, but he has made his choices and he will stand by them. Gog showed him that the world could be changed by the power of one steadfast heart, and he will follow that through.  
  
Because change won't just come to Tevinter. The people here may not be relying him on, or may not even know that they are, but he will change the world, one way or another. He and Maevaris might just begin a ripple effect that takes decades to unseat generations' worth of corruption and rot, but begin it they shall. He won't let anything or anyone take that from him, and he finds himself moved beyond measure, for just a moment, that Krem -- Bull -- that they would bring this to him. They might not know what it means to him, but then again, perhaps they do.  
  
He has a bad habit of underestimating his friends, sometimes.  
  
Rising, he brushes a hand down the front of his tunic. "Well, thank you, Aclassi. I'll just head this off at the pass, all in a night's work, really. Do you need somewhere to stay for the night? I have rooms to spare."  
  
Krem is already shaking his head, hands on his hips. "Nah, the company's close by." After a beat, he shifts his weight from foot-to-foot, awkwardness creeping into his expression for the first time since his arrival. "Chief wants you to know, if you need us, we'll back you up. We've got no great love for Tevinter, but the Chargers don't leave a man behind, and you're one of ours. So, we'll be keeping an eye out."  
  
He doesn't know what to say for a moment, and fears that he gives away too much in his expression; Krem's gaze slides away, and Dorian curls his hands into loose fists, pressing his knuckles against his thighs. Even after all these years, even considering them his comrades as he does, the simple honesty of the statement -- _you're one of ours_ \-- rocks him.  
  
To try to appease the swell of sentiment, he asks teasingly, "And how much will that cost me?"  
  
Krem laughs, short and bright, and claps a hand on Dorian's shoulder as he passes. "I'll let you know. For now, Chargers are keeping an eye on this boiling pot while we work the border, so you're not alone. Weird, isn't it?"  
  
The weight of Krem's hand is solid and welcome, and he almost lifts one of his own to cover it. "What?"  
  
"Going from all this bullshit," and he gestures with his free hand, sweeping the empty library with all of its fine woodwork and first edition books, but no warmth, "to finding a family, and then realizing that doesn't go away just because you run off to another country."  
  
Dorian's laugh is soft and a touch wondering, gaze following Krem's hand as it falls away. "Lucky me."

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on tumblr at [antivanfishwife](http://antivanfishwife.tumblr.com) if you want to shout about these losers or just be pals or anything, really. (thumbs up) I also accept prompts, because writing things for people makes me happy, so come at me.


End file.
